


As You Were

by KatZen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, De-Aged Dean Winchester, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Kid Fic, Kids Remembering Trauma, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatZen/pseuds/KatZen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad said crying was for babies. Dean Winchester was not a baby.</p>
<p>(Castiel deals with the fallout when Dean and Sam are de-aged by a curse.)</p>
<p>For the Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Were

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [As You Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204791) by [omens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omens/pseuds/omens). 



> Please check out the beautiful art that inspired this piece, by omens, linked above. Such a pleasure to work with, and so very talented! I was beyond thrilled to get this prompt and only hope I did it justice.
> 
> Written for the Supernatural Reverse Big Bang. Many thanks to my beta, steeplechasers, for whipping another one of my works into shape.

It was real cold.

_Real_ cold, and his pants were wet with snow, and his hat was wet with snow, and he could barely feel his fingers or his toes and he was about to cry, and Dad said crying was for babies.

Dean Winchester was not a baby.

He huddled by a tree as far from the snowbank as he could get and tried to figure out where he was. Also where Sammy was. Also tried to get feeling in his fingers and toes. Also tried to get a hold of himself, because tears were not going to make this cold any better.

" _There_ you are."

Dean startled at the voice, his whole body convulsing at its loudness, its sudden proximity, its gravelly depth, so much like Dad's. Dad's voice rarely held the relief that this man's did, though, a relief that bordered on frantic, and the form that appeared over the snowbank was not John Winchester but it was an adult, it was—

Dean inhaled sharply as the stranger crashed to his knees beside him. A tan trench coat was whipped off of broad shoulders, and before Dean could fight back, it was bundled around him, and he was scooped up off the ground by strong arms and held close to a very warm chest.

“I will fix you,” the stranger promised, his voice a low murmur in Dean’s ear. “Dean, I swear to you. I'll fix this.”

Dean started to cry.

*

Dean had stopped crying by the time the stranger got to the motel room.

“I'm going to take my coat off of you,” the stranger was saying, the latest in the constant monologue he’d kept up since finding Dean in the snowbank. “Then I'll ask you to remove your clothes. They're wet, and you could get sick. I have dry clothes for you. I'd like for you to take a bath to get warm. Does that sound okay?”

He put Dean down on the ground, and stared at him. His eyes were very blue, very big. _He_ was very big. Dean shivered, but nodded.

He took the coat off, like he said, and he asked, “Do you know who I am, Dean?”

Dean squinted at him. He _should_ remember who the man was. He was important. With his coat and his blue eyes and his gravelly voice.

But he didn’t. So he shook his head.

The man slowed down at that, peeling the last sleeve off of Dean’s arm, and Dean was worried for a moment that he’d made the man angry, but he just looked sad.

The man gathered the coat in his arms and walked over to the window, laying the damp fabric across the heater.

“My name is Castiel,” he said. “I'm here to protect you. I'll set the bath running. Do you need help getting out of your clothes, or can you do it by yourself?”

“I c’n do it,” Dean mumbled, dodging any hint of Castiel’s hands as he took off toward the bathroom.

Castiel followed behind him and turned the water on, showing Dean how to turn it off when it was full, and then left. Once he was gone, Dean stripped off his soaked pants, his damp shirt, his undershirt, until he was down to just his underwear.

He hesitated.

A moment passed, and then Castiel’s voice came through the door. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Dean called, hurrying out of his underwear and slipping into the bathtub.

It felt real good. Warm but not too hot. It made his fingers and toes tingle, in a nice way, like they were waking up. He sighed happily.

“There's soap and shampoo,” Castiel said, still through the door, “if you want to clean yourself. I'm putting your clothes in the bathroom, but I'm not coming in. Okay?”

Dean nodded, then realized Castiel couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he said, and his words were met with a contemplative _hmm_ from Castiel.

He turned the water off and washed quickly, not wanting to be naked and alone in the bathtub with a stranger outside the door for any longer than he had to be. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dried off, slipping into clothes that were a little too big for him once he was done, then opening the door and stepping outside.

Castiel was sitting on one bed, but just barely, like he didn’t want to mess up the covers. _Perched_ , maybe, like a bird. As soon as Dean left the bathroom Castiel’s eyes were on him, like Dad’s when Dean got hurt, looking for something.

Whatever he saw seemed to disappoint him, and he sighed, and Dean curled in a little bit, hoping that _he_ wasn’t the disappointment.

“The clothes are too large,” Castiel said morosely. “I apologize. I forgot that you were so thin.”

Dean frowned. “‘M not _that_ skinny,” he protested, wrapping his arms around his stomach, suddenly self-conscious.

Castiel blinked, then stood from the bed for just a moment before kneeling down in front of Dean. Dean’s stomach lurched when Castiel was standing, but his worry quickly turned to confusion when the man came down to his level.

He flinched a little when Castiel’s hand lowered onto Dean’s head, but all the man did was run his fingers through Dean’s wet hair and say, “You are perfect as you are, Dean. The _clothes_ are too big. You are perfect.”

"Where's Sammy?" Dean asked.

Castiel looked kind of sad again, and Dean got scared and his breath started coming faster. But Castiel said, "He's asleep, Dean," and pointed to a little lump on the other bed, beneath the covers.

Dean's breathing slowed down again.

"He's okay," Dean said, because it could not be a question.

"He's fine," Castiel replied. "Worried for you. But now that you are here, he'll be fine."

Dean felt his stomach twist.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, mumbling in his embarrassment, his sense of failure at having let his brother down. “Don’t know how I got outside.”

He looked around at the room, familiar mostly in its unfamiliarity. It was just another nameless, anonymous motel in a string of nameless, anonymous motels stretching back to the Fire, but this one had been as close to home as it had gotten for the past two weeks. He couldn't really remember where they were or what Dad was doing that brought them here, but he knew this ugly wallpaper, these scratchy sheets. The bed that Sammy was sleeping on was the one he'd been laying his head on every night for thirteen nights.

Castiel smoothed the fabric of the too-big shirt over Dean’s shoulders, and he felt himself relaxing, just a little, under the touch.

Dad still carried Sammy, sometimes, when he couldn’t walk fast enough, because he was just a baby. But Dean was too big to be carried. Dad patted his head, sometimes. It was okay. He was a big kid and big kids didn’t need to be babied.

Castiel’s hands were warm, that was all. Dean was still pretty cold.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel said, putting one hand against the back of Dean’s neck, the other against his forehead. “And your brother is safe.”

“Where’s my dad?” Dean asked, only leaning into the warm hands a little bit.

Castiel got really still.

“He is away,” Castiel said, taking his hands away from Dean’s face.

Dean knew something was wrong because he said it really slowly, like he was making it up as he went along.

“He has left me to take care of you,” Castiel continued. “Until he returns, I will take care of you and your brother.”

“Did he really leave us with you?” Dean asked.

Castiel didn’t say anything, and that was scary, but eventually he smiled sadly and put his hand in Dean’s hair again.

He nodded, which wasn’t as good as saying _yes_ out loud but was better than nothing.

“I promise, I will keep you safe,” Castiel said.

Dean didn’t want to believe him.

But he couldn’t really help it.

*

Sammy woke up about an hour later.

He started crying, and Castiel moved like he was going to go get him, but Dean ducked under his arms and ran to the bed. Castiel didn’t argue, and Dean was glad. Sammy was _his_ job.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, keeping his voice quiet, because Sammy was always grumpy when he woke up. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He peeled the covers off from Sammy, and was greeted with his little brother’s flushed, fussy face. Sammy glared up at him, then relaxed when he saw it was Dean.

“Dean,” he whimpered, his little face scrunching up again. Dean pulled the rest of the covers away and climbed onto the bed next to him.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he said. He held his arms out, and Sammy scooted over into the hug. “Shh, don’t cry, Sammy.”

Sammy sniffled into Dean’s shirt, and Dean felt Castiel watching them. He was quiet, though, patient, not butting in, like Dad would say. That was good.

Sammy was Dean’s job.

“Daddy?” Sammy asked, and Dean hugged him tighter.

“Daddy’s gone for right now,” Dean said. “He’s coming back. Right now Cast—Cas—Cas is taking care of us.”

He looked over to the strange man, in case the nickname wasn’t okay, but Castiel was smiling. Dean felt the knot in his stomach unwind, just a little bit.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, looking down at his little brother’s messy brown hair. Sammy nodded, his nose bumping against Dean’s ribs as he did. “Okay. Good.”

Silence fell over the room, other than the quiet shift of cloth as Sammy settled in against Dean, and the soft noise of Dean’s hand in Sammy’s hair.

He looked up at Castiel, who was still watching them, his smile faded into thoughtfulness.

“What now?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” said Castiel.

The snow kept falling outside.

*

Castiel was weird.

He wasn’t mean. He was kind of scary, but mostly because Dean didn’t know him and he still wasn’t sure that Dad had actually left them with him. But he wasn’t _mean_.

But he talked funny, and he didn’t know stuff that Dean was pretty sure all grown-ups were supposed to know.

“I’m not _allowed_ to watch that show,” Dean said, shielding Sammy’s eyes.

Castiel frowned. “I thought you liked this show.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

Castiel frowned deeper.

“Dad says it’s for grown-ups,” Dean continued. “Sammy can watch Sesame Street.”

“Sesame Street,” Castiel echoed.

Dean sighed and took the remote control, flipping through the channels until he reached the local PBS station. The screen filled with colorful puppets.

Dean glanced at Castiel, whose head was tilted very far to the side.

“Sesame Street,” Castiel said again.

“It’s got puppets and songs.”

“It does appear developmentally appropriate for a child of Sam’s age.”

“It’s—I guess.”

Sammy laughed at something that Grover said. Dean smiled, shifting his hold on his brother. When he looked up, Castiel was smiling, too.

Dean didn’t know smiles could look that sad.

*

Dean was used to leaving motel rooms.

“This is insufficient,” Castiel said, looking at the walls like they’d insulted him. “If you are going to stay like this for an extended period of time, as it appears you will, we have to find better accommodations.”

“We’re leaving,” Dean said.

He’d said it before, to Dad. _We’re leaving_. It wasn’t really a question, just a clarification. Making sure he understood before he started packing. It wasn’t like he cared.

So when Castiel gave him a funny look, he didn’t know why.

“What?” he demanded, shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you not want to?” Castiel asked.

“What?” Dean said again.

“Do you not want to leave? Do you want to stay here?”

Dean looked at Castiel, suddenly angry. He did not like to be made fun of.

But Castiel didn’t look like he was making fun, so the cranky look on Dean’s face turned into confusion.

He waited for Castiel to tell him what he meant.

He waited for about two minutes.

“What?” Dean said for a third time.

Castiel sighed and sat down, touching the bed next to him—an invitation. He didn’t pat it like a normal person. He just touched it, then pulled his hands onto his lap.

Dean sat, and he realized after a second that he’d folded his hands on his lap, too. Just like Castiel.

It made him feel weird.

Sammy laughed at something on TV. Sesame Street again, Dean was pretty sure.

“I don’t want to do anything that will make you unhappy,” Castiel said. “If you don't want to leave, we can stay.”

“Why?”

Castiel tilted his head again.

“Because I want you and Sam to be happy and safe.”

Dean pulled his feet up onto the bed, hunching over a little.

“Aren’t we safe here?”

Castiel peered around the motel room, like he was deciding.

“We are safe,” he said, finally, and Dean felt something in his chest unwind. “But we can be more comfortable. There's mold here, and it could make you sick.”

“It could make Sammy sick?”

Castiel looked at him, then, and his eyes were sharp and intense, and Dean got very still and looked away.

He jumped a little when he felt Castiel’s hand on his arm.

“It could make _you_ sick,” Castiel said. “You or Sam. And either is unacceptable.”

Dean shrugged.

*

An hour later, they carried their few belongings out of the motel room and into Dad’s car.

Dean didn’t ask why Castiel had Dad’s car.

He didn’t want to know.

*

Castiel drove very slowly.

It set Dean on edge. He sat in the back with Sammy, who fell asleep as soon as the engine turned on just like he always did. Cars kept driving around them, their drivers yelling soundlessly beyond the glass or throwing ugly looks and gestures at Castiel, who didn’t even seem to notice.

“Dad drives faster,” Dean said.

Castiel gave him a look.

The look was _annoyed_ , and it startled Dean. Castiel had been really careful with him before—Dean knew it when he saw it, that Castiel was holding back, being nicer than he could have been.

He could see it in his dad sometimes, that holding-back. That effort. It was harder for his dad than it was for Castiel. Castiel made it look easy.

But this look scared him. It wasn’t angry, but it broke the illusion that he’d been building—that Castiel was always happy, always okay.

“Sorry,” he murmured, curling himself a little around Sammy.

His heartbeat sped up as Castiel pulled over wordlessly, easing the car onto the shoulder. He pushed himself in front of his brother, his fear churning in his stomach and turning into energy.

But it stilled when Castiel turned in his seat, and his expression was sorrowful. His hand reached into the back seat, and Dean flinched away from it at first, then relaxed when gentle fingers brushed his own.

“I keep thinking you are someone else,” Castiel said.

“Who?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked away, into the passenger seat, like there should be someone there.

“My best friends,” Castiel said.

“Where are they?” Dean asked.

Castiel met his eyes, and the sadness didn’t fade, but he smiled anyway.

“They are safe,” he said.

*

Castiel called their new house the Bunker.

It was _big_. Bigger than Dean had ever seen a house be before. Sammy was walking behind him, hands gripping Dean’s sweater, eyes wide as he stared around himself.

Castiel hung the keys on a hook near the door, and kept close to Dean and Sammy as they wandered slowly through the entrance. The staircase wound down in front of them, and it felt like there was too much air for it all to get warm. Dean shivered.

“There are rooms for both of you,” Castiel was saying when Dean started paying attention again, “or you can sleep in the same room.”

Dean remembered having a room. He had one at Home, before Mom died.

“I want to stay with Sammy,” Dean said. His voice was quiet, swallowed in the vast space.

He almost jumped when he felt Castiel’s hesitant hand in his hair, but he kept himself still.

“Of course,” Castiel said. “Let’s get you settled.”

*

The room felt like familiar.

Dean couldn’t say why. It was empty, mostly. Nothing on the walls, a shelf above the bed that didn’t have much on it. But it felt like he’d been here before.

He asked Castiel as much.

He didn’t answer, just lowered his hand again into Dean’s hair, then his shoulder as he helped him bundle a sleepy Sammy into the bed.

“Sleep,” Castiel said, as he lifted Dean into the bed, too. “I will come to check on you later. I’m sure you’re very tired.”

“Not really,” Dean said, swallowing down a yawn. His throat felt full with it, and he kept his teeth shut tight against it.

Castiel smiled, and Dean frowned.

“Good night, Dean,” he said softly, standing up from the bed. He turned the lights off when he reached the door.

“Good night, Cas,” Dean called back, and saw Castiel’s silhouette pause before he stepped out and shut the door behind him.

Dean burrowed into the bed, which was big and soft. Softer than he could remember a bed feeling before. It was almost uncomfortable, the way his back dipped into the bed—

That was the last thing he thought before he fell promptly asleep.

*

_Fire chains pain the scent of sulfur that never leaves your nostrils, gets clogged in your pores, caked onto your teeth, in your_ hair, t _he way your skin tingles when it’s not hurting and it’s almost worse, the_ waiting _, because hurting is all the worse for a reprieve, for false hope, and they always wait just long enough for you to break down and allow yourself to dream that once just once it won’t hurt again and then the door opens and the heat swells and you start to cry but Dad said crying is for babies and it’s been so long since you’ve been a child but here, pride isn’t even a memory and here, Dad won’t save you and here, nobody will save—_

*

“Dean!”

Dean jolted, his whole body convulsing with panic, his chest aching from hyperventilation and his throat burning from screaming, and Castiel’s hands were on his face and in his hair and Castiel’s eyes were wide with worry, and Sammy was sitting up because he was awake now, woken by Dean’s screaming, and they were in the Bunker.

They were in the Bunker, not in Hell.

But he had been in Hell, once.

Castiel grabbed the trash can just before Dean began to vomit.

*

The next time Dean woke up, it was on the couch, snuggled up with Castiel.

It was gentler, this time, the waking. He hadn’t dreamed at all. He wriggled a little bit, just getting more comfortable, and Castiel looked down at him.

“Good morning, Dean,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

Dean peered around Castiel’s chest to where Sammy was sleeping.

“Good morning,” Dean whispered back. His words stuck in his throat and made it ache.

Castiel adjusted his arm around Dean’s shoulders,

“You had a dream last night,” Castiel said. “And I know it frightened you.”

“I remembered about Hell,” Dean whispered.

He leaned harder against Castiel, and Castiel held him tighter in return, his hand running gentle circuits up and down Dean’s arm. He melted into the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “I wish you hadn’t.”

“Was I bad? Is that why I went, because I was bad?” Dean asked, and Castiel’s hand stopped.

“No, Dean. You were very, very good, and you went because you were very brave. And you are out, now. I took you out, and I will never let you go back again.”

“I was a grown up. In Hell.”

Castiel moved his hand again, up and down on Dean’s arm, gentle and grounding and steady.

“Yes.”

Dean shivered, pressing in tighter against Castiel.

“You don’t have to think about it if you don’t want to, Dean. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

Dean leaned his head heavily against Castiel’s ribs.

“Okay.”

*

The stuffed animals were a surprise.

Castiel, to be fair, looked almost as off-balance as Dean did. He stood awkwardly behind the couch, the pink horse and fluffy killer whale perched on the pillows like they didn’t quite know what to do, either.

Sammy knew exactly what to do.

“ _Fish!_ ” he shrieked, and launched himself at the sofa, barreling sideways onto the cushions and wrapping his arms around the killer whale.

Castiel peered down at him, then back up at Dean.

“He likes it,” Dean said with a shrug.

“They were remarkably soft,” Castiel said. “And firm enough to serve as a pillow, should one of you fall asleep on them.”

“Dean, fish,” Sammy said, holding the killer whale out. “It’s a fish!”

“Orcas are actually oceanic mammals, related to the—” Castiel began.

Dean was frowning at him.

“Dean, Sam wants to show you his fish,” Castiel said mildly.

Dean oohed and ahhed over the stuffed _oceanic mammal_ until Sammy was satisfied, and then went to look at the horse, which was apparently going to be his since Sammy claimed the killer whale. Orca.

He felt Castiel’s eyes on his back as he approached the horse, and stuck out a hand to touch it from arm’s length. He ran his fingers down its fur.

He heard the little sigh he let out just too late to stop it from happening.

It was pretty soft. And okay, pink, but really soft. And big enough to rest his head on or curl up with at night. And probably it didn’t kick like Sammy did.

He climbed up on the couch and knelt in front of the toy, studying it. The horse stared straight ahead, of course. But in its inattention was a kind of comfort. It didn’t expect anything of him. It was okay with him just being there.

He put his arms around it and leaned on it, closing his eyes.

It was a pretty good pillow.

He opened his eyes and sat Castiel looking at him. He glared, and his grip slipped, ready to release the toy if Castiel said something.

Instead, Castiel walked over to Sammy and put his hand on the orca. “Shall we bring them to your room?” he asked.

“No,” Sammy said. “Story.”

Dean settled against his horse, looking up at Castiel with pleading eyes that matched his brother’s.

He remembered story time from when Mom was still here. Sammy didn’t remember it, of course. He was too little. But Dean remembered.

He liked it. And he wished Sammy had ever gotten a story.

Castiel looked nervous, but he nodded.

“All right,” he said. “A story.”

*

Castiel was a terrible storyteller.

He wanted to tell _Bible_ stories. And not just Bible stories, but scary ones that Dean knew would be too scary for Sammy.

“Not that one,” he said for the sixth time.

Castiel sighed heavily. “I know millions of stories, and yet—”

“Three Little Pigs,” Dean said.

Castiel quieted, looked thoughtful. “Three Little Pigs,” he said. “One moment.”

He slipped his arms out from behind Dean and Sammy, and left the room.

The room was chilly without him in it, and Dean shivered, scooting next to Sammy.

It was only the second time since they’d been with Castiel that he’d left them, at least when they were awake. It felt kind of weird. Dad left them alone a lot, because he had to, because of his job. Like now. He’d left them with Castiel, this time, but he’d left them alone before. Not for long, just for an afternoon, just to go talk to people for his work.

But Castiel stayed close, like he was worried that if he looked away, Dean and Sammy might disappear.

Dad acted like he knew they’d always be there, waiting for him. Castiel acted like he thought they’d slip away any moment.

It made Dean feel a little bit good, even if he couldn’t quite say why. Why it made him happy that Castiel worried. It just did.

It also made him happy when Castiel came back, a thin, leatherbound book in his hands, a smile on his face.

Dean moved over as he approached, giving him room to sit between him and Sammy, only pausing afterwards to wonder why he’d done it. Let somebody else sit next to Sammy, instead of him.

Letting somebody who was practically a _stranger_ sit next to Sammy.

But he felt himself leaning into Castiel’s chest again, and he could hear Sammy breathing on the other side as he did the same thing, and he forgot his complaints.

Castiel waited until they were both settled, wrapping his arms around both of them, and Sammy’s fish, too. Dean leaned back against his shoulder so he could see the book, and Sammy cuddled in by his chest.

Even then Castiel waited, but for what, Dean couldn’t tell anymore. He looked up, cautious at the stillness.

Castiel was looking at the book, but Dean could tell he wasn’t really _seeing_ it. Instead, he felt the way Castiel’s arm tightened a little around him, pulled him a little closer, did the same with Sammy on the other side. He saw the way Castiel’s eyes closed for just a moment, the way his face turned sad-but-happy, like it was in the car when he’d talked about his best friends.

Then it was over, and Castiel’s eyes opened again, and he said, “The Three Little Pigs.”

Sammy was enraptured from word one, but Dean didn’t pay a lot of attention. He watched Castiel’s face, instead.

Once upon a time he was a grown-up in Hell, and Castiel took him out of there.

Anybody who could do that must be pretty awesome.

He wondered who Castiel’s best friends were, that they were off being safe somewhere else while Castiel looked sad.

He didn’t think they were very good best friends at all.

*

Sammy started having bad dreams.

His were almost as scary for Dean as having the bad dreams himself. Sammy wouldn’t wake up, he would just scream and cry and while he was crying he would _say_ things, horrible things in some kind of language Dean hadn’t heard before.

Dean would wake up and shout for Castiel, who was always close, always in the room as quickly as Dean could hope for, his eyes blood-shot and the rings under them darker than they were in the daytime. He would always run to the bed and scoop Sammy up and keep a hand on Dean’s arm, because he knew how scared Dean was, because he knew how alone Dean felt when Sammy wouldn’t wake up.

Castiel would talk back in that language, and it didn’t sound so scary when he did it. It sounded nice, almost, rhythmic, like cars on the interstate or white noise on the nice alarm clocks that helped Daddy go to sleep sometimes. And he and Sammy would talk, and Dean would feel really useless and really small because he was the only one who didn’t speak that crazy language.

And Sammy would almost wake up, his eyes would open a little, and his voice would get all hoarse from the screaming and he would sit up and talk so calmly to Castiel in that weird language that it made Dean shiver. He sounded like a grown-up, like Dad, like Castiel.

Dean had been a grown-up in Hell, once upon a time.

Maybe Sammy had been a grown-up, too.

Sammy would go to sleep after, but Dean would stay awake, feeling all crawly and wiggly and uncomfortable next to a Sammy who could make those sounds.

And Castiel knew, and he would put Dean’s horse between them, so Dean didn’t feel like he was abandoning Sammy but also didn’t have to be right next to him.

And Castiel wouldn’t leave until Dean had fallen asleep.

*

The Bunker was really big.

Sometimes things in it would make Dean feel weird, like he should remember them but couldn’t quite. He would stand and stare at things—books, pictures, even weapons (there were a lot of weapons)—until Sammy or Castiel came by and snapped him out of it.

It would always make Castiel have this worried look on his face, when he caught Dean doing it. Dean didn’t like to make Castiel look like that, but he couldn’t help it. Things just reminded him of something. Something from maybe when he was a grown-up.

Castiel said he didn’t have to think about it. But sometimes, he did anyway.

If he’d been a grown-up before, why was he a kid now? That wasn’t how things worked. Maybe being in Hell had turned him back into a kid again, but he didn’t think so. If that was true, why was Sammy a kid, too?

_Sammy_ couldn’t have gone to Hell. Sammy was too good to go to Hell.

It was something else.

Dean wandered around the Bunker, staring around himself at the art and objects placed on the shelves that lined the walls. Sammy was taking a nap back in their room, and he had been, too, but he’d woken up first and Castiel hadn’t been around. He didn’t know where Castiel would be in this big place, but he figured he couldn’t get _too_ lost.

Just to be on the safe side, though, he broke his animal crackers into little pieces and left them behind him, like the breadcrumbs in that story Castiel had read to them.

When he finally found Castiel, it was in one of the libraries. Castiel didn’t look up, probably didn’t hear him—just kept reading the big book in front of him.

The lights were pretty dark, mostly just one lamp right above where the book was. Castiel looked really tired, his elbows propped on the table, his forehead resting on a hand. He was wearing the same sweater he’d been wearing for more than a day now, and there were circles under his eyes.

He looked like Dad did, sometimes. Dad would read books really late at night, too, books with scary pictures, or he’d write in his own book and draw his own scary pictures.

Dean was almost all the way up to Castiel before he noticed him. He sidled up to the table, glancing at the big, old book that sat atop it, full of words he didn’t understand and just a few he did.

_Curse_ . _Child_ . _Reversal_.

Castiel shut the book quickly.

“Are you hungry, Dean?” he asked.

Castiel had apparently decided that Dean and Sammy were _always_ hungry. It wasn’t far from the truth, but sometimes there were other things wrong, like sometimes Sammy got too sleepy and that’s why he was mad, or Dean got lonely for his dad and that’s why he wasn’t talking. Castiel always guessed _hungry_ first, though.

“Nah,” Dean said casually, peering up to get a better look at the book.

Castiel pushed it further onto the table.

“What can I help you with?” he asked.

“What are you reading?”

Castiel’s expression shuttered. “Nothing for children,” he said.

Dean frowned. “I saw it said _child_.”

“That doesn’t mean that it’s _intended_ for children. This is not a discussion, Dean.”

Castiel had been doing _that_ lately, too. That _Dad_ voice.

But he’d seen the words he’d seen.

“Am I cursed?”

Castiel took Dean’s face between his hands, and said again the words he’d said he first night.

“You are perfect as you are.”

*

The book did not look innocent.

Not the one Castiel was reading—that one was lost on the shelves somewhere, hidden away from prying eyes, and probably too far up for Dean to reach, because Castiel was not dumb. No, this was a different one. Smaller, leather-bound, unmarked on the outside. It was soft, like it had been touched a lot of times. It felt familiar in his hands.

Dean was still mad at Castiel—even though it had been two days—for shutting him down about the other book, so he figured one scary book was as good as another when it came to getting back at a grown-up.

He opened the book.

*

He woke up shaking under Castiel’s hands.

“Shh.” Castiel didn’t pause in his slow stroking of Dean’s arm. “Don’t move too quickly. You fell when you passed out.”

“Dad’s not coming to get us,” Dean whispered.

That caused a stutter in Castiel’s movements, but only a stutter.

“You’ve remembered more,” Castiel said, traitorously unhelpful.

“We went looking for Dad,” Dean said, his breath hot against Castiel’s pant leg as he tried not to cry. “When we were grown-ups. We found him. But Dad’s gone now.”

Castiel didn’t answer. Dean wondered if he thought this was a test, like Dean wasn’t sure.

Dean was sure.

“You lied to me,” he said, but he couldn’t quite work the anger into his voice. He could barely feel it under the crushing, numbing weight of his grief and confusion.

“I did,” Castiel finally said. “Would you have come with me, otherwise?”

“No.”

“And have I harmed you or Sam?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Do you remember _me_?”

Dean rolled over so that he could study Castiel’s face. Its planes and angles, the scruffy beard he always seemed to have, the bright blue eyes, the messy hair. He knew he should remember that face. He _knew_ it. That face was _important_.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he shook his head.

Castiel wiped it away with his thumb.

“It’s okay, Dean. I promise. It’s all right.”

Dean shook his head.

“My daddy is dead.”

Something broke in Castiel’s face, and he shifted his grip on Dean, lifting him up and laying him against his chest. Dean’s face tucked into Castiel’s shoulder, and he cried.

*

Dean liked cereal.

The sugarier, the better. They had this one at the Bunker that had marshmallows in it and that one was just the _best_. And there was enough for him and Sammy to both have some, every morning, if they wanted to.

That was the best part. Sammy liked it, too, and Dean didn’t have to pick who was going to get the last bowl. They could both have it.

(Not like he’d ever not pick Sammy, anyway.)

Sammy was still asleep this morning, though. Dean had left him snoring softly in bed—the bed they were still sharing, even though Castiel said they had rooms for both of them. Dean didn’t want Sammy out of his sight for that long. He trusted Castiel—he just didn’t trust _Sammy_ around all of this stuff in the Bunker.

Especially not now that he remembered.

Not everything—just enough. Just enough to know that if Sammy didn’t remember, and he was pretty sure he didn’t, he could hurt himself really easily on a lot of the crap they’d stored here.

( _Crap_ was a grown-up Dean word that he found himself thinking sometimes. He didn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t a kid word, and he didn’t know if Castiel could get mad about it, but he knew Dad would have.)

He had been sleeping badly since he started remembering. It wasn’t all the time, just pockets of memories—memories that sat badly in his head, came at him sideways when he wasn’t expecting it. He’d look at Sammy’s sleeping little face and he would think _I sold my soul for him_ and then he’d start to cry.

Or he’d look at Dad’s journal and he would remember sleepless nights on the road with Sammy as they hunted vainly for their dad.

Or he’d find a book and open it and see a picture of some horrible monster before Castiel could take the book away, and he’d remember killing something that looked just like it.

It didn’t affect him the same way every time. Sometimes he’d cry, especially when he remembered something about Sammy. So many bad things happened to Sammy. It made his head hurt to look at that tiny face and think about the things that the big, angry man in his memories had been through.

Sometimes it made him throw up, because it was like looking cross-eyed at something. He’d see two images that he knew were the same, but he couldn’t make them come back together in his vision. It _hurt_ , like a physical thing, and Castiel had already grown to know that look on his face that meant he’d better get to a garbage can, and quick.

And sometimes it just meant he couldn’t sleep. That his brain was too full, his six-year-old’s worth of neurons just not able to handle decades and decades and decades of memories, and he couldn’t go back to sleep.

So he sat alone at the table, the digital readout on the clock saying 3:30 AM in red numbers, his feet swinging off of the chair, eating his sugary, sugary cereal.

He looked up when Castiel came into the room, followed him with his eyes as he hesitated by the table and then sat down across from Dean.

Dean took another bite of cereal.

“Hi, Cas,” he said.

“I’ve found a cure,” Castiel replied.

Dean took another bite of cereal.

He chewed and swallowed.

“Dean.”

“Okay.”

Dean put his spoon down and carried his bowl to the sink, standing on his tiptoes to push it onto the counter. When he turned around to walk back to the table, Castiel was already in front of him.

He crouched down to Dean’s level, and Dean folded his arms, looking away.

“I found a cure,” Castiel said again, and Dean shrugged. “Dean. A way to turn you and Sam back to normal. To fix you—so that you don’t keep getting sick. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered.

He still didn’t look up, but he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, studying him, figuring him out. Castiel didn’t touch him, though. Just looked.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged again.

“Dean.”

“Dunno.”

“ _Dean_.”

Dean sat down hard on the floor, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and started to cry.

The next time Castiel said _Dean_ , it was surprised, and a little alarmed, and a lot softer.

“Grown-up me is really sad,” Dean said between sobs. “Grown-up me gets hurt _all the time_ . Grown-up Sammy is so mad all the time. At _me_. And I’m so mad at Sammy. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to have to sell my soul and go to Hell and fight monsters and be in charge and I don’t want to be grown-up me. He’s scary and it’s scary to be him and it makes my head hurt when I think about him. I don’t want you to fix me. Can’t you just take care of me?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, and after a long while Dean looked up.

There were tears in Castiel’s eyes, and on his face. He nodded.

“I’ll make the cure,” he said, and Dean started to protest but quieted when Castiel raised his hand. “It takes two days. If you don’t want to use it—if you don’t want to go back to being who you were—I won’t make you. It’s your decision. Yours and Sam’s.”

“You won’t make us take it?” Dean asked.

“I won’t hurt you,” Castiel said. “And if that means letting you be children, then that’s what I will do.”

Dean thought back to the car, when Castiel had looked at him so strangely, and the strange apology he’d given.

“Were _we_ your best friends?” he asked, and Castiel grew still. “Me and Sammy? When we were grown-ups?”

Castiel brushed a final tear from Dean’s cheek.

“Let’s see if you can go back to sleep,” he said.

*

Sammy didn’t understand.

It was the next morning, and Castiel had started the cure. He tried to explain the decision they had to make with small words and lots of gestures, but Sammy was just confused. Sure, he wanted to be a grown-up. He was getting big, he said, like Dean.

He hadn’t remembered.

That meant, Castiel said later, when Sammy was down for a nap, that it would be Dean’s decision for both of them. Sammy would agree to being a grown-up if Castiel proposed it; all children wanted to be adults, he said. Dean knew what was being asked. Dean would have to decide.

Castiel left him alone after that. He didn’t exactly say he wanted to be alone, but Castiel seemed to know. He said he’d be in the library if Dean needed him, and then he slipped away.

Dean had found Sammy’s room by then. Sammy, it seemed, kept a lot more stuff than Dean did.

(Somewhere in his brain he remembered that Sammy had gone to college, that he’d had more of a chance to know what _normal_ was. That normal people kept stuff. Dean never would never get—had never gotten that chance.)

That meant that Sammy had some pictures. Not a lot, but some. Pictures of him and Dean, pictures of them and their dad, pictures of people that Dean half-remembered. Bobby. Ellen and Jo.

He found one, a picture from what he was pretty sure was Bobby’s house, of him and Sammy and Castiel. He and Sammy were laughing, and Castiel was sitting stiffly on a couch, watching them.

He still didn’t remember Castiel. Not at all. To him, Castiel was exclusively his caretaker, not his friend or his equal. His dad, in this place where his dad wasn’t there.

He was pretty sure, though, that when Castiel had said in the car that he kept mistaking Dean and Sammy for his best friends, he had meant that he kept forgetting they were not who they used to be. He kept thinking that they were their grown-up selves.

Which meant that if Dean said no, that he didn’t want the cure for them, he’d be taking away Castiel’s best friends. Forever.

Taking away his best friends and leaving him with two helpless little kids to look after.

On the other hand, he could say yes and give Castiel his friends back but give Sammy back the sadness he saw in the faces that floated right above his little brother’s face. Or he could say no and spare Sammy that pain. He didn’t even _remember_.

He took a few pictures and wandered downstairs.

Castiel was where he said he’d be: in the library, surrounded by books. He closed the book immediately when Dean came in, this time, and pushed it to the side.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did Dean, but he pulled up another chair that Dean crawled up on. He watched as Dean spread the pictures he found out on the table.

They both stared at the pictures for a while. Castiel would take one and hold it, and Dean would watch his face. He didn’t give much away; a little softening around his eyes, a little bit of a smile, or a frown.

Finally Castiel put a picture down and slid it directly between them.

“This was taken after you and Sam had preserved one of the Seals locking Lucifer away,” he said.

Dean stared at him.

“And saved the lives of countless people while doing so,” Castiel continued. “You were very tired. But you were laughing.”

Dean pulled the picture over to him, but Castiel had taken another.

“Shortly before this picture was taken, the two of you had saved a young family from a Black Dog. Sam is laughing at you because the young mother gave him a kiss, and not you. You are smiling because their two-year-old daughter gave you a hug, and not Sam.

“This one was taken after you defeated a djinn.

“...after a werewolf hunt—

“...on New Year’s Eve. It was a quiet night. No hunt. Just you and your brother, able to enjoy a year of good works.”

Dean stared at the pictures in front of him.

“I was a good guy,” he said.

Castiel huffed a laugh, and Dean turned to him.

“What you _are_ , Dean Winchester, is a hero,” he said.

Dean shrugged, uncomfortable.

“Do you want me to be a grown-up again? Should I be a grown-up again, so I can keep being a...a hero?”

He felt Castiel’s hand between his shoulder blades, heavy, warm. He looked back at the pictures.

“I can’t tell you what to do.”

Dean sighed.

“But you have earned this choice. And whatever you choose to do, Dean, I will respect.”

*

“Okay.”

Dean didn’t look at Castiel, but he heard the chair squeak as he moved. Dean kept staring at his stuffed horse.

“Okay?” Castiel echoed.

“Okay, I’ll be a grown-up again. Me and Sammy.”

Dean heard footfalls, and then the couch dipped under Castiel’s weight as he sat down beside Dean’s head.

“Why?”

Dean shrugged.

“‘Cause I’m really a grown-up, right? For real, without the curse. And Sammy, too. So what was it, a witch or something?”

“I believe so,” Castiel replied.

“Then we can’t let the witch win. And leaving me and Sammy like this, that’s what she wants, probably. Because me and Sammy are heroes and she wants less heroes to fight her.”

He heard the smile in Castiel’s voice as he said, “That is perhaps her motive.”

Dean ran his hand down one of the horse’s legs.

“So I guess we should turn us back.”

“Do you _want_ me to turn you back?”

Dean’s hand stilled, and he hugged the horse tighter to him.

“I’m kind of scared,” he admitted.

Castiel’s fingers threaded through his hair.

“We don’t have to do the spell,” he said. “I said I’d respect any decision you made. If you don’t want to do this, Dean, we won’t.”

Dean turned his face in to Castiel’s thigh, and leaned harder against the slow, soothing hand.

“My head hurts all the time, Cas,” Dean whispered. “I wish I didn’t remember. If I didn’t remember, I could stay like this. But I do. And it hurts.”

“Then we’ll do it,” Castiel said. “If it’s what you think is best.”

Dean was grateful that he didn’t say _if it’s what you want_.

It was not what he wanted.

It was what he thought was best.

“How long until it’s ready?” Dean asked.

“Twenty-three hours.”

Dean nodded.

“What do you want to do?” Castiel asked.

Dean thought.

*

When Dean remembered that last day as a child, he remembered:

Bowls of ice cream for breakfast _so big_ he couldn’t even finish his.

A car ride with all the windows down and AC/DC blaring from the speakers, because he remembered enough to remember that he liked AC/DC.

A trip to a local county fair, complete with cotton candy, fried foods on sticks, and a ride on a rickety ferris wheel that had Castiel white-knuckling the bar the whole time.

(Except for one moment on the wheel when Sammy looked like he was about to launch himself off, when Castiel threw his arm in front of him and started yelling something that sounded like a prayer.)

The most joyous stomach ache that Dean had ever experienced, brought on by a disgraceful excess of county fair food.

An hour at a playground, playing with other kids his age, kids who never ever had to think about monsters or being heroes except in the make-believe games they played—and for just a minute, Dean could pretend he was like them.

Dinner at a family restaurant, where the waitress called them ‘adorable’ and he ate enough macaroni and cheese to fill him up for a week—all the greasy over-indulgence of the fair, seemingly, forgotten.

A ride home with the windows down again, drifting lazily in the back seat, Sammy draped over him, Castiel’s eyes peering back in the rearview, turning fond when they met Dean’s.

One last storybook, cuddled on the couch with their stuffed animals, Castiel’s soft, even voice telling fairy tales while Sammy drifted off to sleep.

*

Castiel closed the book.

He didn’t say anything, seemingly afraid to break the quiet that had settled over them, underscored by Sammy’s soft snoring.

He didn’t want to, so Dean did it instead.

“Thanks for today.”

Castiel smiled. “You are welcome, Dean.”

“Seriously. It was _awesome_.”

“Not less than you deserve.”

“I’m—”

Dean hesitated, and Castiel did not push him.

“I think what I’m gonna be saddest about, when I’m a grown-up? I’m gonna miss being your kid.”

Castiel’s smile stuttered, but did not fade away.

“Did you never remember me?” he asked.

Dean shrugged.

Castiel leaned forward, put one hand on Dean’s shoulder, and his thumb at the top of the bridge of Dean’s nose.

Warmth, comfort, and with it, soft memories.

“You have always been my charge,” Castiel said, his voice a quiet rumble beneath the waves of memories making their way into Dean’s mind. “You have always been mine to protect. However old you are, that is my job.”

And Dean looked up at him, at the man he now remembered was an angel—an _angel_ , with wings and maybe a halo, and all of that—who’d made him dinner and woken up when he had nightmares and bought him a fluffy pony and taken him to the fair. Who’d Fallen for him and fought beside him and got him cotton candy when he asked for it.

“I’m ready,” Dean said.

“You always are,” Castiel replied.

*

Twelve hours later, Sam was in his room, sleeping off the effects of the spell.

Dean was in his, about to do the same.

Cas came in, no knock, of course, because he could speak every language ever conceived but it was a literal impossibility for him to learn basic manners and—

Dean felt his righteous indignation sputter out much more quickly than usual.

“Are you feeling well?” Cas asked, and for just a second Dean thought he was referring to his short-lived indignation.

Then he realized he meant the spell.

“Peachy,” Dean said. “Feels like the biggest bitch of a hangover I’ve ever had, but I’ll sleep it off.”

Cas smiled, and Dean looked away. When he looked back, the smile was gone.

“I imagine you’ll sleep for a while,” Cas said. “I’ll leave you. I’ll be in the library if you need me—if you feel wrong in any way.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Cas hovered in the doorway for a moment, then turned to leave.

Something lurched in Dean, and he said, “Hey, Cas.”

Cas stopped, turned.

Dean sat up in bed, ran his hands through his hair. It felt a little odd, still—the sensation of his body, fully grown, all the scars and calluses and muscles and aches he’d left behind for just a little while, when he was hit by the curse. It was all back, no reset, just like he’d left it.

“Just, what you did. When we were whammied.”

“Dean—”

“Hey, shut up, man.”

Cas shut up, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. Dean scowled.

“Just, thanks. For taking care of me. And Sammy.”

The smile slipped. “Dean, I did nothing you would not have done. You were injured on a hunt, and I cared for you, as you have done for me.”

“It was more than that, man, and you know it,” Dean said, then sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”

But Cas didn’t leave. He walked over to Dean, who followed his movement with his eyes but didn’t move himself. Cas got very close—predictably close—and studied Dean with that dissecting stare of his.

Finally, he put his hand on Dean’s head, and Dean felt himself melt into it the same way he had when he’d been a kid.

“If I could have let you remain a child without the side effects, I would have,” Cas said. “You deserved a childhood.”

“You gave us a hell of a lot towards it,” Dean said.

Cas smiled, then, a real smile, and withdrew his hand.

“Rest,” he said. “Your body needs it.”

Before Dean could reply, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean settled into bed, sleep already tugging at his eyelids.

On the shelf above him, the stuffed pony stood watch.

 


End file.
